


Vampire: The Requiem - Bloodlines

by SummersonMars



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game), Vampire: The Requiem, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Bloodlines Retelling, Bloodlines Story, Character Turned Into Vampire, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Cross-Posted on deviantArt, Don't Have to Know Canon, Gen, L.A., Mostly No Copy-Pasted Dialogue, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on deviantART, POV Female Character, POV Original Character, POV Third Person, Retelling, Set in Bloodlines, Vampire Turning, Vampire the Masquerade, Vampire the Requiem - Freeform, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummersonMars/pseuds/SummersonMars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Bloodlines with Requiem's ruleset and setting. One of the primogen of Los Angeles is executed, leaving a power vacuum and his clueless childe to navigate the city's tumultuous political landscape on her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Luckiest Man in Los Angeles

**Author's Note:**

> _Vampire: The Masquerade: Bloodlines_ , _Vampire: The Requiem_ , and all of the things that went into them were created by White Wolf Publishing and Troika Games. The rest is my doing.

Andrew McCray was a very lucky man.

That was one of the reasons why he was a darling of the First Estate. Every member of the Invictus wanted power. If they already had it, they wanted more of it. If they had all the power that they could stand, they wanted to keep it. Andrew, or Alder McCray as he was more commonly known, just so happened to have a knack for getting people what they wanted. As anybody who knew him could tell you, you could give him the most seemingly impossible task and he would somehow pull it off through sheer brain power, the power of money, or the power of dumb luck, all of which he had in spades. Some of his fellow covenant members were baffled at that last asset, but at the end of the night, he always got the job done and they and him got what they both wanted. What was the point in questioning something that worked?

He wasn't always so lucky however. His parents were the offspring of Irish immigrants who fled from the country during the Great Famine of the mid 1800s. In the Americas, they found themselves toiling in factories in Baltimore, Maryland instead of on farmland outside of Baltimore, Munster. As there was little chance of advancement for someone of their social class, it appeared that he was destined for the same fate. This only changed when he met his sire: a former slave who himself got a run of good luck and freedom to go along with it. The two just happened to be frequenting the same bar in Philadelphia at the same time and they hit it off. He showed him a couple of tricks and a world of opportunity opened up in Andrew's mind. He could start a new life (or whatever passed for one for his kind) for himself; new city, new story. And he could do it in the most prominent city in America with the help of the most illustrious of kindred institutions. Shortly after he arrived in New York City, he learned that the Invictus would give titles and status to a bum fresh off the street if an elder of high esteem thought that they were useful enough. And as it has been mentioned, Andrew's talents were quite useful.

It was also in New York City that Andrew met the Duke of Los Angeles. Andrew was introduced to Alder LaCroix in the 30s, back when he was a rising star fresh off a plane from London and encircled with rumors. A few of those rumors were troubling, but he managed to rise up in the ranks and earn a few titles for himself nonetheless with Andrew's help.

Unfortunately, as the decades wore on, the future duke appeared to hit a glass ceiling of sorts and set off for the west coast, taking a few of his personal inner circle with him. (In truth, some of his so-called inner circle only went because Andrew had gone along, but no one would dare admit that to anyone else.) There was a First Estate to welcome them, but it was small and hardly influential. Los Angeles was the domain of the Carthians and had been for many decades. It would take a lot of wheeling and dealing and maybe even a bit of killing to dislodge their death grip on the city. Fortunately, such things were the specialties of many in the First Estate. By the dawn of the new millennium, Los Angeles was an Invictus city, a few rogue neighborhoods notwithstanding. Among other things, Andrew was given domain over a few neighborhoods and a place on Alder LaCroix's council of primogen for his numerous efforts.

But with power and status came people who wanted to take it from him. It was common knowledge that he was a popular person. More popular than the duke, in fact. Why, some people asserted that he had done more to take the city for the covenant than the self-proclaimed duke had. The duke had noticed as well, and rumors were flying from the mouths of the harpies about what he was planning to do about his political rival. Of course, the duke dismissed such nonsense. Why would he waste his time on such frivolous matters? Why would he want to remove a loyal and respectable member of the community? He had a city and a business to run. He didn't have time to speculate and worry about the personal requiems of other kindred like they did. And so on.

Still, there was a noticeable tension in the air between the two. Maybe it was just pressure from the harpies trying desperately to find some new scandal to gossip over, or maybe Alder LaCroix really did see him as a threat and he wasn't imagining the somewhat frosty receptions he received during court. Either way, it seemed to him that the two of them were going to have a hard time co-existing in the same city. Though the duke was far older than him (assuming he wasn't lying about his age) and could easily destroy him if their rivalry turned physical, Andrew had a large amount of favors that he could cash in to several other powerful kindred in the city. But no, the wheeling and dealing had grown boring. LaCroix could run his reputation and city into the ground by himself. Andrew was just going to pack a bag, take Jojo, and head to Las Vegas.

Jojo wasn't aware of the plan though. She wouldn't be until he was ready to leave out of necessity.

Jojo, much like Andrew, had had a pretty unlucky mortal life. From what she had told him, he knew that she grew up in a trailer park in Nevada with her deadbeat mother and mostly absent father. She came to the area with her friends to look for a big break, as many transplants to the LA area had before them. They had a band, she said. Unfortunately, no record label had shown even the least bit of interest in them, so they were living paycheck to meager paycheck in a rundown, cramped, and roach infested apartment. The two met in a bar a few months ago, and she proved to be good company. The change would be good for her, and it would be nice to have someone who was local to the area to help him get situated. You didn't need to be a genius or have the backing of someone with a lot of power and money to get ahead in life (or unlife), just a good bit of luck.

Especially in Vegas. Making a fortune in Vegas was all luck.

The night that he was going to leave got off to a rocky start. Jojo was surly when she met up with him, having gotten into a fight with the rest of the band over skipping practice to come see him. But once he got some food and booze in her, she perked up considerably. They went to Madam Voerman's night club, agreed that everything about it was terrible, and checked into a motel in Santa Monica for some private time.

The sex was a little sloppy, but great. She didn't resist when he told her that he wanted to show her something that wasn't his dick, and didn't struggle when he drained her dry. No one ever did. That was the great thing about the kiss.

But then, he hit a snag. Jojo had had way more to drink than he had anticipated, and it hadn't finished going through her system, so her inebriation had passed on to him along with all of her blood. He stumbled out of bed, pulled his clothes on, and sat down in a nearby chair, hoping that she would wake up quickly and that the room would stop spinning before someone caught them.

The second he thought that, the Reeve and his men broke into the room and shoved a stake through his heart.


	2. The One Left Behind

The first thing Jo Palmer noticed when she woke up was that she was really hungry.

The second thing she noticed was a man leaping onto her with a wooden stake in his hand.

She didn't have enough time to realize that she was being attacked, nor did she have the opportunity to dwell on it immediately after.  There was nothing immediately after that.  It was as if whatever it was that happened had sent her to sleep.  She may have even dreamed a little.  Vague snippets of half formed red scenes floated through her unconscious; weak dreams that faded from her memory as quickly as they formed.

After who knows how long, she finally came to... and immediately wished that she could go back into the strange sleep-like state that she had just been in.

She was knelt on what appeared to be the stage of the Nocturne Theater, an old theater in downtown Los Angeles that she and her friends had been in once to see a concert.  It was decorated in the same red and gold scheme and looked just as run-down as it did when they were there a few months ago, sans all of the discarded food, drink cups, and other concert garbage that people couldn't be bothered to properly throw away.  Someone was holding onto the back of her neck and she was surrounded on all sides by people, with Andrew kneeling on her right.  He was fully dressed, but she was as naked as the day she was born.  Not that she worried much about that.  There were much more important things to focus on.

Like the dozens of monsters sitting in the audience and standing along the walls.

They didn't look like monsters.  On the outside, they just looked like a bunch of normal people; people of all ages, shapes, colors, and manners of dress.  Some were watching the proceedings on the stage attentively, while others looked like they were bored out of their skulls and wanted to be somewhere else.  But something deep down inside her knew that every last one of them was a monster, and every last one of them could tear her to shreds if they wished, and they would do just that if she didn't break free and get as far away from them as she could right that second.  Fuck Andrew.  He could take care of himself.

She struggled impotently at the hands binding her, like a scared dog trying to break free from a leash.  "Let me go."  Of course, they didn't listen.  All the person holding her did was tighten their grip.  "C'mon man, let me go..." she whimpered.  Her captor, a man judging from the deep tone of his voice, just laughed softly and tightened his grip again, digging his nails into her skin.  Her vision blurred for a split second.

Somewhere in the room, a hoity-toity sounding voice droned on about... something.  She acknowledged it just long enough to decide that it was incredibly annoying.  Occasionally, it would become louder, and a pair of very expensive looking leather shoes would walk in front of her.  At one point, it stopped and another man's voice yelled out, followed by an angry sounding woman's voice and the sound of flesh hitting the wooden stage.  The other man called out again and a full blown shouting match ensued.

_Run!  Run!_

A voice not unlike her own joined the screaming.  It didn't just growl at her, it pounded itself into her head, demanding that it be listened to above all the others.  It wasn't demanding anything that she didn't want to do already, but it made her feel like that if she didn't obey it, her very soul would burst from her body and flee on its own.

And holy _fuck_ , was she hungry...

She struggled to free herself again.  Her captor's grip tightened painfully, his fingernails feeling like they had bored through the muscles in her neck and were directly touching her spine.  The voice continued to echo in her skull.  Somewhere in the distance, a man with a deep, throaty voice was laughing.  
 _  
_Then suddenly, all of the noise dampened.  The only sound she was aware of was the sickening sound of metal slicing through flesh and bone and two fleshy thumps.

The sounds, along with a slight rush of air, came from Andrew's direction.

The second the air hit her cheek, Jo blacked out.

The next thing she remembered was a feeling of intense relief.  She was drinking... something.  Something wonderful and incredibly filling, like a Thanksgiving dinner after a week of fasting.  Every mouthful relaxed her deeper than the strongest hit of pot, and yet charged her more than the strongest cup of coffee.  It was as if someone was feeding her ambrosia straight from Mount Olympus.  Ambrosia or some street drug that was capable of making her feel like Superman in the middle of an orgy.  The thought of whatever it was possibly fucking her up later crossed her mind for all of a nanosecond.

Jo's sense of taste came back first.  Apparently, ambrosia tasted like iron and salt, yet oddly sweet.  Something that probably should have been an acquired taste, but was, at that moment, Jo's favorite thing in the world.

Next came her sense of touch.  She was gripping something.  Something large and clothed.

Her sight came next.  The object was a large, muscular, scruffy man.  Her face was buried in his far too white neck, her lips suctioned to his skin like a leech.  The hot ambrosia like substance was pouring from him and down her throat.

"Shit!"  Jo leapt up and threw him away from her.  The man's slack body fell to the cold, tiled floor with a dull thump.  His eyes hung open, with only the whites visible.  His mouth hung open in what Jo's slowly panicking mind registered as a death rictus.  She assumed as much because his entire upper body and part of the floor around him was covered in blood; the source of which was a large, gaping bite wound on his neck.

She looked down at herself.  She was completely naked, and her chest and forearms were covered in blood.

"Shit..."  She looked around.  She was in a grey tiled cube of a public bathroom with a busted toilet, an equally busted sink, a mirror that was shattered in one corner, manual and cracked soap and paper towel dispensers, a round plastic trash can, and only just enough lighting to give whoever was in it just an idea of what they were doing.

She rushed to the sink and looked at herself in the mirror.  "Holy shit..."  Normally, she wasn't much to look at; dark blonde hair that reached her lower back that she never got around to getting trimmed, light blue eyes, small lips with a silver ring pierced through the right corner of her lower lip, and a hawk-like nose.  At the moment, she looked like a cannibal.  Dried and fresh blood covered her mouth and oozed down in streaks onto her neck and chest.  The light makeup she had on was smudged, and her hair was in disarray.  To top it all off, her reflection was... off.  When she looked closer, she realized that the edges of her body were blurred, like someone had smeared Vaseline on the mirror in an outline around her.

She looked at herself over a few times.  As solid as ever.  She touched the mirror.  There was nothing on it.  _No...  And I don't feel high...  How much did I drink?_

She racked her brain, trying to piece together a timeline of the night.  She met up with Andrew at her favorite bar in Venice Beach, like he had suggested a few days prior.  She didn't tell Samantha or the rest of her roommates about her date until a few hours before, partly because Samantha really didn't like Andrew.  (The other part was that she had just forgotten to tell them.  It didn't seem like much of a big deal at the time.)  Sam thought the fact that he didn't want to hang out with the rest of the group and never really gave a concrete answer when he was asked questions about himself was shady.  Normally, Sam would just express her concern and Jo would insist that he treated her right and everything was fine and that would be it.  But that night, they almost got into a fist fight.  They had practice that night.  Their first gig in months was next Friday, at a club rumored to be frequented by label execs no less, and they needed to be at the top of their game.  But they had a week, Jo insisted, and it was just one date.  Sam fell back on her usual argument of Andrew being creepy.  Jo shot back that Sam was jealous over seeing her with someone else and that she shouldn't have listened to her father if she was going to act like a possessive creep whenever she got a new partner.  The two then just screamed over each other while their two roommates, Derek and Chris, tried to perform damage control.  It only stopped when Jo stormed out the door.

When she got to the bar, she grumbled about not wanting to talk about the fight and forgot about it somewhere around the third cocktail.  Sometime when they were leaving, she vaguely remembered saying that she wanted to go to Pacific Park.  Everything after that was a blur.  There were some things about an awful goth night club, a motel, sex...

...Red... the theater... leather shoes, yelling, and laughter...

Andrew...  Andrew was yelling.  Where was he?

And if she was drunk enough to have trouble remembering things before, why did she feel dead sober?  Even with the shock of the dead man on the floor, she would still have at least a trace of a hangover.

She glanced back at the man.  It wasn't Andrew.  Andrew was a brunet, not black haired.  He was wiry, not a beefcake like the dead guy seemed to be.  His hair was different too; a bit rugged with longer hair and a scruffier beard than most, but not full on mountain man.  The only real flaw she ever saw in him was that he was a little on the pale side for her liking, but no one was perfect.  ("I'm Irish, Jojo.  When I go out during the day, the sun tries to kill me," he once joked.)

Did he just dump her in there with the dead guy and run off?  No, that still didn't explain the theater...

"Holy shit..."

She knelt beside the man and pressed her ear against his chest, straining to hear for a heartbeat.  "C'mon dude, don't be dead..."  The thought of having to do CPR crossed her mind.  She learned CPR in high school, right?  No wait, she might have skipped that day.  God, it was hard to think.  Part of her just wanted to forget about the man and find some dark corner to hide in, but that wouldn't accomplish anything.  Either way, at the very least she had to find a pay phone and call 911.  But she didn't even know where she was... and her bag was missing along with her wallet. _And fuck me, I can't walk out of here looking like this.  People will think I'm crazy._

A hard knock came at the door.  Jo shot to attention like a gazelle that had just spotted a lion."Uhh...  Occupied!"  It swung open anyway, and she froze.

If the woman in the doorway had any thoughts about the crime scene she had just walked into, she was certainly good at hiding them.  The only physical reaction she offered up was a swift scan of the room and a blink.  She was a picture of grace.  Golden blonde corkscrew curls were piled in an elegant mass on top of her head and framed her soft facial features.  A long black overcoat with a massive grey furred collar covered her body, contrasting with her pale skin.  Behind her, a square jawed man with black hair in a business suit held what looked like a crossbow at the ready.

They were both monsters, and Jo had to fight down the urge to press herself against the back wall of the bathroom.

"Listen, this isn't what it loo-"

"What an awful mess," the woman said, a light French accent wafting from her perfectly rouged lips.  Her green eyes regarded the sight with... boredom?  Annoyance?  Jo couldn't tell.  Whatever it was, it wasn't the normal screaming freak-out that she was expecting.  The French woman turned to the man.  "Go tell the prince that she is done frenzying."

"Yes, Alder Seneschal," he replied before heading back down the hall beyond the door.

The woman finally looked straight at Jo, as if she had just realized that she was in the room.  "You will be happy to know that even despite your outburst, the Most Merciful Duke of Los Angeles has seen it fit to spare you."

Jo looked at her like she had grown a second head.  "What?"

"Here are your clothes," the woman reached down behind the wall on her side, picked up a bundle of fabric, and placed it on top of the trash can, "your shoes," she tossed a battered pair of black and white Converse next to the can, "and your bag."  The black messenger bag was placed next to the shoes.  "Clean yourself up and get dressed."

"Uhh..."  Jo pointed to the man.  "What about this guy?  He needs to go to the hospital."  Assuming he hadn't already kicked the bucket.

"Someone will be along to deal with him.  Do not worry about him."

"Don't worry about him?!  Dude's fucking unconscious!"

"He will be dealt with," she reiterated.  "Ignore him and get dressed or I will suggest to His Grace that he change his mind about letting you live."

"Okay!  Damn..."  The woman shut the door without another word.  _This is some crazy fucking mafia shit..._   Jo thought as she reached for her clothes.  Was Andrew part of the mob?  Did he fuck up and cross the mob?  Did the mob even exist in LA?  They certainly weren't gang bangers.  Frenchy didn't look like someone who would willingly spend time in South Central.

Jo went to the paper towel dispenser and grabbed a wad of the scratchy brown squares.  As she wetted them and wiped herself off, she discovered two things that, in the panic, had previously escaped her notice.  The first was that she didn't have a stab wound on her chest.  In the haze, she could remember the possibility of being stabbed.  Surely, she would still be hurting from that.  Maybe it didn't really happen or someone patched her up in the gap in her memories.  Whoever that was must have been a miracle worker...  The second one was, and this one was the most jarring, she wasn't breathing.  Not involuntarily anyway.  She could take breaths, and did so the second she noticed, but they felt pointless.  She didn't feel better for doing them and didn't feel like she was suffocating when she stopped.

"I must be tripping and can't tell," she murmured.  "I wanna go home."  Go home, apologize to Samantha and the rest of the group, and call Andrew in the morning to tell him that she didn't want to see him anymore.  Sam was right.  Andrew was shady, even if he was approachable and charming.  Admitting that was going to hurt, but it wouldn't be the first time Jo was wrong about a person, and Sam was usually very forgiving.

Eventually, Jo managed to get the blood and makeup off of her and pulled on her clothes: A black and white Green Day concert t-shirt with a heart shaped grenade on it, worn in black jeans with holes in the knees, underpants, bra, and shoes.  A quick run-over with her hair brush and she was good to go.  When she placed the brush back into her bag, she combed it for the rest of her usual items:  Wallet (with her license and money), key ring, makeup, hair ties, cigarette pack, lighter, and her lucky drumsticks.  At least she wasn't robbed on top of everything else.

The woman was still waiting for her when she stepped out of the bathroom.  The guy in the suit was back and had brought along a few nearly identical looking buddies.

"Follow me," the woman said, turning to head down the grey concrete hall.  As the two moved away from the bathroom, the men went into it.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?"  Jo asked as she walked behind her.

"What is your name?"

"Jo Palmer, and that doesn't answer my question."

Jo could see the sides of the woman's face scrunch up slightly.  "That is a man's name," she said in a tone that, to Jo, sounded like something in between confusion and derision.

"It's spelled J-O, not J-O-E.  You know, like in _Little Women_?"

"That makes a difference?  That one little letter?"

"Yup.  That doesn't answer my question though."

"The Alder Prince will explain everything."  The woman waved a pale hand dismissively.  Her nails were long and painted a deep burgundy.

"I hope so.  I apparently had a really fucked up night and the last few people I've met so far won't tell me shit.  Like what the fuck happened to my date."

"Hmm..."

The then silent walk didn't take very long.  Eventually, the hall lead to a small flight of stairs that opened up to the Nocturne Theater's stage.  The first thing that caught Jo's eye was the massive elephant of a man standing near some discarded cabinets.  It was the only proper word that could be used to describe all of him; tall and wide with leathery ash colored skin, ponytailed dreadlocks that looked to be as wide as her wrists, and a duster that looked like it was made by wrestling an actual elephant into submission, twisting its neck, and skinning it.  On his back was a sword that was almost as tall and as wide as he was and looked to be fashioned haphazardly out of a giant slab of steel.  Jo quickly guessed that she would only come up to his stomach if she actually got up the nerve to go over and compare their heights.

The other person of interest looked like he was made of money; expensive looking black overcoat; long sleeved light grey dress shirt with cufflinks; black and grey checkered silk tie; dark grey business slacks; short strawberry blond hair that had been carefully cut, styled, and hardened into place with product; thick but lightly shaped eyebrows; a strong jaw with a prominent chin and not a trace of facial hair...  If you looked up 'businessman' in a dictionary, his face would be staring back at you.  Despite being part of the deluge of dark clothing, one feature about him made him drastically stand out: Instead of the almost deathly pallor that his associates had, his skin was the healthy peach color that Jo expected it to be.  He was looking out into the auditorium as he came into view, and flipped closed and placed a cell phone in his pocket just as the French woman's heels clicked onto the stage's hard wood floor.

They were also monsters, and part of Jo's mind tugged her backwards, urging her to flee again.  

"Ah, there you are," the blond man said as he turned to them.  It was the annoying hoity-toity voice from earlier.  Jo unconsciously took a step back as he moved toward them, but fought down the urge to turn tail and run outright.  If this was the guy that was going to explain everything, she figured it would only help her to hear what he had to say.

The French woman gestured to the man with a flourish and a bowed head.  "His Grace Alder Sebastian LaCroix, Duke and Prince of Los Angeles."

"How can you be a duke and a prince at the same time?"

Both the Alder Seneschal and Alder LaCroix raised an eyebrow.  "Miss Jo Palmer, do not speak to the prince until he has addressed you," the seneschal all but growled.

"Jeez, sorry!"

The prince gestured dismissively, much in the same fashion as the seneschal had earlier.  "An understandable misstep, and those questions will be answered in time.  For now, there are more pressing matters to attend to."  LaCroix turned to the seneschal.  "Thank you, Alder Tolbert.  I can take it from here."

"Yes, Your Grace," Alder Tolbert bowed her head, her curls bouncing slightly as she started to walk off.

"If you're leaving the theater, go back to the office and wait for me there," LaCroix added without turning around.  "I want to speak with you about something."

Tolbert glanced back at the prince, looking as if she were contemplating the order.  "Yes... Your Grace," she finally said before heading down the side of the stage and toward the double doors leading out of the auditorium.

LaCroix turned to the man in the duster.  "Wait here."  The man nodded silently.  He turned back to Jo.  "Follow me."  Even before the last syllable left his mouth, LaCroix was already on his way off the stage and into the backstage halls.  Jo sprinted to catch up with him.  "Now, first off:  Allow me to apologize for the display earlier.  It was not my intention to drive you into frenzy."

"Fre-?"

"Unfortunately, Andrew McCray, your sire, had not only broken one of the laws that I instituted to maintain order in this community, he had also broken one of the three traditions that all of our kind must adhere to, lest we jeopardize our very existence."  It made sense.  That whole mess earlier must have been a trial.  But then the rush of air...

"As prince, it is my duty to-"

"You killed Andrew?!"  Jo stopped walking and stared at him incredulously.

LaCroix stopped and turned to face her.  "He killed himself the second he chose to ignore my praxis," he said, furrowing his brow.  "He knew full well the consequences of his actions and he was suitably punished for them."

"You're not even giving me a straight answer about what he did!  What is this shit?!  Are you a mob boss?!"

"Miss Palmer-"

"Is this some fucked up prank that my friends are pulling?!  Jesus Christ, I might have killed a man!"

"Miss Palmer-"

"I wasn't even conscious for it!  I've knocked people out before, but I can't just kill someone with my bare hands!"

"Miss Palmer, look at me."

And she did, right into his eyes.  He had very striking eyes; a mix of grey and light blue, almost similar to Andrew's eyes, in fact.  It was something Jo didn't notice up until that point.  Something she had to notice at that point, because the second she made eye contact with him, she felt compelled to keep looking at them.

" _Calm - down._ "  It was a very simple phrase, but the way he said it made her worries just... melt away.  Why was she getting all worked up anyway?  Tolbert said that the man would be taken care of, and there was nothing she could do to bring Andrew back.

She nodded her head.  "Okay..."

LaCroix nodded in return and resumed walking.  "Please understand that it was nothing personal.  I am as much of a servant to the laws that govern us as everyone else in our community.  I just have the added burden of bearing the displeasure of those who think the penalties for disobeying them are unfair.  Of course, if I were following the letter of the law, you would have been put to death as well.  But while your sire may have been a habitual criminal, I understand that you yourself had no say or knowledge of the crime that you were a victim of.  Therefore, I have decided to take you on as my page."  By that point, the two of them had reached the end of the hall and were stopped by an emergency exit.  He turned again to face her.  "In the eyes of the community I am now directly responsible for your education.  Consider the task I am about to give you your largesse to me for this and bending the law in your favor."

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Excuse me?"  There was an edge of anger in his voice.

"How 'bout I just go home, you go back to your office, and we both forget that this ever happened?  I won't tell the cops.  I won't be in your hair.  We'll both be... copacetic.  How's that sound?"

"It sounds like nothing I just said got through to you.  Under normal circumstances, you would be a pile of ash right now.  You're going to refuse a task from the person that spared your life?  The very same person, I might add, that is taking it upon himself to teach you the ways of our kind when there is no one else willing to do so."

"Look, I'm grateful, but I don't wanna get involved with whatever crazy mafia shit you've got going on here.  I promise I won't tell the cops.  I have a history with cops.  I don't like 'em."  By the time she had finished high school, she was one more charge away from a jail sentence.

LaCroix's chest noticeably rose and fell and his nostrils flared for a split second.  "I don't have time to argue with you.  If you won't understand simple reason, then perhaps you will understand this:  You will either perform this task for me or I will have my Reeve come down here and send you to your final death as the law dictates.  The choice is yours."

"...Fine, I'll do it."  One couldn't really argue with a death threat.

"Excellent.  In a few minutes, a taxi will arrive at the back of the building.  It will take you to Santa Monica.  I had a safe house there converted into a haven for you and I am granting you feeding rights within the neighborhood's limits."  As he said that, LaCroix produced a tarnished house key from his pocket and held it out to her.  Jo took it and turned it over in her hands.  On its ring was a small rubber fob with the logo for a 'Trip's Pawnshop'.  "Once you're there, you will be contacted by an agent named Mercurio.  He will give you further instructions.  When you are finished, you will report to my office in the Venture Tower.  Do not return to your old home, and do not contact any friends or family while you are on this mission."

"Right..."  Jo let out a wholly unnecessary sigh and tossed the key into her bag.

"When you return, we will work on integrating you into Society proper.  Until then, I bid you good evening."  With that, the prince turned on his heels and headed back towards the stage.  There was no head bow, no politeness, just the poise of a leader who had finished giving orders to a subordinate.

It was only after Jo stepped out into the alley did she realize that the prince hadn't really explained what was going on at all.


	3. The Man Who Always Smiles

Jo saw the motorcycle before she saw its owner.  It was a huge mass of red, black, and chrome tarnished from mud, road debris, and age; all creating a layer cake of grime that the owner couldn't seem to be bothered to wash off every so often.  There were no decorative stickers or decals for any riding clubs, just paint and grime.  A length of chain connected it to the rail of a stoop on the other end of the alley.  
  
She also smelled him before she saw him; a mix of cigar smoke and motor oil mixed with the musky grime and mildew of the west coast city's version of autumn.  She stepped out into the alley, wondering where the smell was coming from before loud, rancorous laughter jolted her senses.  
  
Jolted them quite literally, as the corners of her vision went red, and she unconsciously turned toward the source of the laughing, letting out an animalistic hiss.  
  
"D'aww, ain't you pwecious!  Like a little kitten that just opened its eyes!  Heheheh!"  The bike's owner was a grimy mess of denim and hair in his early 40s; unkept black and grey hair trailed down the back of his head, down his face in a long, raggedy beard, and coated his muscular arms and chest.  The only clothes he wore were an open denim vest and jeans, both looking worse for wear.  Steel-toed leather boots, ass-kicking boots, rubbed out the stump of the cigar that he had tossed onto the ground.  "Ah, calm down, kiddo.  I'm not gonna hurt ya."  
  
An edge of caution still lingered in Jo's mind as the sudden rush of adrenaline, or something like it, started to subside.  The man was a monster.  He could snap her in two if he really wanted, but he hadn't.  Not yet, at least.  She took a few deep breaths, and then realized that they didn't make her feel any better than they did back in the bathroom.  
  
"Theeeere we go.  Look kiddo, I bet the Vickies just plopped ya out here without another word.  So I thought I'd come out here and show you the ropes; give you the basics."  
  
Jo just stared at him.  "What's a 'Vicky'?"  
  
"Them," he pointed a gnarled, meaty finger back at the theater door.  "The Invictus; they're all about stupid titles and hierarchies based on how good you are at kissing elder ass."  He grunted.  "Eh, if you live long enough, I'll tell you more about what I think about 'em.  There's more important shit you need to be filled in on right now."  
  
"'kay...  So, who are you again?"  
  
"I'm Jack.  Now you want my help or not?"  
  
"I'm Jo, and that'd be nice."  He seemed like a decent enough guy, the rough and dirty biker motif notwithstanding. "Weird shit's been happening to me all goddamn night and no one will tell me anything!"  
  
Jack nodded.  "Yup, thought so.  Well, let's get the big thing out of the way: Congratulations, kiddo, you're a vampire now!  Don-"  
  
"Bullshit!  You're fuckin' with me!"  Vampires didn't exist.  Anyone could tell you that.  But as the words left her mouth, Jo's mind started to spin; the hissing, the weird trial, her blurred reflection, the poor guy in the bathroom...  "You're not fuckin' with me."  She suddenly felt like the wind had been knocked out of her.  "Fucking hell..."  She reached down and started to fumble with her bag.  
  
Jack didn't seem fazed by her outburst.  "That's the Masquerade doin' its job, and now it's your job to help keep it up.  Don't go tellin' anyone you're a vampire and you'll avoid trouble for yourself and the rest of us."  Jack paused and watched her mess with her bag.  "What's wrong, kiddo?  Did you lose something?"  
  
"I need a cigarette."  She reached her hand out of her bag, only to see it wrapped around a crumpled carton.  "Aww shit, I'm out.  Hey, you got any more cigars?  Can I have one?"  
  
"Nah...  You're gonna wanna stay away from those for a while.  Fire and the Beast don't mix."  
  
"But you just got done smoking one!"  
  
"And I'm 350 some years older than you!  If you get to be my age, you can light up all you want!  But right now, you're poppin' fangs at every little noise!  If you lit up now, you'd probably lose your damn mind like you did back in there."  Jack's face twisted into a wide grin, showing off an impressive maw of black and yellow teeth.  "That was hilarious!  You almost knocked the sheriff on his ass!  And the prince?  He looked like he just walked in on someone fucking his prissy little seneschal!"  He threw his head back and let out another roar of a laugh as one of his hands slapped his thigh.  
  
"That ain't funny.  I don't remember any of that."  
  
"Ahahah...  Whew...  Of course you don't.  No one does."  Jack's expression went from utter amusement to stone dead seriousness.  "When you frenzy, the Beast takes over.  You could be all honky-dory one minute, and then the next everyone else in the room is a blood slurry."  
  
"Fuck..."  
  
"Just remember to stay fed-"  
  
"Blood, right?"  
  
"You got it.  Don't take anything that might piss you off so seriously, and don't go scaring yourself and you'll be fine.  If you don't give it a reason to take over, it doesn't become a problem."  
  
"Umm...  I... might have killed a man..."  
  
"Eh, don't dwell on it too much.  It's just one person; slip-ups happen.  It's like a deer getting shot for wandering into someone's yard; doesn't mean anything in the long run.  Of course, if someone starts shooting at you, shove the gun up their ass, drain 'em dry, and don't give it a second thought.  Self preservation is fine," another grin, "and it's fun!  Killing innocent people is not."  
  
"'kay."  
  
"As for everything else, don't go out during the day, you catch a sunrise and it's all over, don't let anyone see you in front of a mirror or on a camera, you'll look like a moving blur, and don't get caught with a stake through your heart unless you like being paralyzed for a while."  
  
"How the hell am I supposed to avoid cameras and mirrors?!  There's cameras on stoplights, you know."  
  
"Well, you can will yourself to look solid _._   That usually does the trick.  Don't ask me how it works though."  He shrugged his massive shoulders.  "Anyway, get blood where ever and however you can.  You're still young.  You can feed on animals.  Polite kindred society looks down on people for that, but fuck 'em."  
  
"'Kindred'?"  
  
"Our word for vampire."  
  
"Oh."  Jo stood silently for a moment, then let out a sigh.  "This all sounds depressing.  Is there anything good about all this?"  
  
"Well, if you play your cards right, you could end up living forever.  And your body's more durable no-"  A car horn cut him off.  He glanced down at the entrance of the alley, looking annoyed.  
  
"Oh shit, that's probably my ride.  That LaCroix guy is making me go to Santa Monica to do something for him."  
  
"Already trying to get rid of you, eh?  Well, if you make it out of there alive, come see me in The Last Round.  It's a bar in Boyle Heights.  I'll fill you in on the clusterfuck that is the politics here.  Nines hangs out there too.  He'll probably want to see you and give you the Carthian spiel."  
  
"Nines?  Who the fuck is Nines?"  
  
Jack tsked and shook his head, looking slightly amused.  "Yup, not a word.  Not surprised...  Nines Rodriguez: he's the guy that saved your ass.  LaCroix was going to have your head chopped off before he spoke up.  You don't remember it because you were still frenzying when it happened."  
  
"I thought he spared me because I wasn't involved in... whatever my sire did."  
  
"That's called 'lying to save face', kid.  LaCroix's a politician.  Politicians do that shit all the time.  But if you want to believe him...  Well, it's your funeral.  Now go ship off to Santa Monica like a good little soldier.  I need to get goin' anyway."  Jack unchained his motorcycle and slung himself over it.  "Nice knowin' you, kid!  Heheheh!"  Then, helmetless, he roared off into the night, covering the alley in a black plume of exhaust.

* * *

  
"So you know I only have like, 15 bucks on me right now, right?"  
  
"I have been instructed to charge the cost of your travel expenses to the LaCroix Foundation."  
  
"Oh...  Okay.  Cool."  
  
The taxi driver, an unassuming middle aged man with short black hair and dark sunglasses, was reluctant company: silently eager to get Jo to Santa Monica without speaking to her.  The statement about her inability to pay for the ride was the closest she had managed to get to striking up a conversation.  Every other attempt was met with the same response.  
  
"So are you the LaCroix Foundation's personal taxi driver or something?"  
  
"I serve at the pleasure of the prince."  
  
"Course you do.  Do you work for a taxi company or are the decals and shit just for show?"  
  
"I serve at the pleasure of the prince."  
  
"'kay...  How long have you been driving?"  
  
"I serve at the pleasure of the prince."  
  
"Oh c'mon, that doesn't even make any sense!"  
  
"That is all you need to know."  
  
It was drizzling when they got to Santa Monica.  The thick rain clouds hid whatever color the sky itself might have been.  Something that Jo realized after glancing at the car radio's clock halfway through the ride that she should be concerned about.  Thankfully, the driver didn't seem to want to waste any time either and started to address her long before the taxi stopped in front of the hard-to-miss Trip's Pawnshop, a grey block of a building with bars on its windows and its signage posted bright and big over its front door.  
  
"Your haven is apartment 508.  I will return when you have completed your mission."  
  
"What if I want to go somewhere before then?"  
  
"I have been instructed to not provide you service until you have completed your mission."  
  
"Fine..."  Jo scooted her way out of the taxi.  It was already beginning to move when she closed the door behind her.  "Jackass..."  
  
The apartment building, very obviously a hastily added on and partly hidden annex to the pawn shop below it, had six units, no laundry area, and a smell that combined the worst aspects of urine and mildew.  The floorboards creaked as she walked past the cluster of mailboxes and up the stairs, surrounded on all sides by the dullest brown stripped wall panels in existence.  The wooden apartment door creaked when she opened it.  The entire unit, almost as dull of a grey as the Nocturne Theater's bathroom and the pawn shop's exterior, seemed just as hastily furnished with a plain metal bed frame holding a stained mattress, a flaky green desk, an old 80s style TV, and a pile of plywood boards that matched two that were already covering the windows by the bed.  The whole apartment smelled like rotting pizza, which she threw out of a nearby window (no screen, of course) after she discovered it sitting in a greasy box on the kitchen counter and watched as it missed the dumpster in the alley below.  "Gross...  Waste of good pizza too..."  
  
Outside, the rain clouds were starting to break, and Jo noticed a thin sliver of blue starting to peak over the horizon.  She shut the window, hopefully the pizza smell would go away on its own, and grabbed one of the plywood boards.  They ended up fitting snugly into the window frames, so much so that Jo had to jam a toothbrush that someone had left behind in the bathroom in-between them and the boards to pry them loose again.  Not that there was any point in removing them, she eventually concluded.  The view was nice, but if what Jack said was true, it wasn't worth the hassle.  
  
After switching on the ceiling light (a solitary bulb hanging from the rafter filled ceiling), she inspected the desk.  Sitting in front of the chair was a slightly worn laptop computer.  Next to it was a pile of notes, one of which, a plain piece of folded white paper with her name written on it in plain script, clearly had something tucked in it judging from the way that it bulged.  
  
She read that one first, though it proved to be a disappointment.

_Greetings, sister,_

_Are you feeling lost?  Alone?  Angry at God for the curse that you now bear?_

_Well, I have sent this message to tell you to rejoice!  You have been chosen by the Lord Almighty to serve a higher purpose!  I have left you a pamphlet that will explain to you what that glorious purpose is._

_If you want to know more or just need a hot meal, come visit us downtown in the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels_. _We'd be glad to have you._

_Forever in His grip,_

_Bishop Robert Vick of the Lancea Sanctum_

_  
_"I've only been here a few minutes and I'm already getting preachers wanting to talk to me," Jo mumbled, examining the passport sized paper book that was tucked inside the note.  It would have resembled any old run-of-the-mill paper tract if it weren't for the words 'The Catechism' printed on the front of it in black font.  She was never a religious person.  Her parents weren't and made no attempts to change that.  The one time she did get dragged into a church that didn't involve someone getting married or dying, when she was about 6, she spent the entire service screaming about being bored and how the dress that her grandmother had stuck her in for the occasion was itchy. _Maybe it'll be funny like one of those Chick Tracts,_ she thought as she opened it to the first page.

  
_ **Everything You Wanted To Know About The Lancea Sanctum (But Were Too Afraid To Ask)** _

_**Q:  Does the Lancea Sanctum believe in a god?** _

_A:  Yes!  We believe in the God of Abraham and his only son, Jesus Christ.  We believe that He is the creator of all of Heaven and Earth, and that He sent his son to Earth via the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary to redeem Man from Sin._

_**Q:  Does God have a place in His creation for the Kindred?** _

_A:  Yes!  Every being in Creation, great or small, has a purpose, and the Kindred are no exception._

_**Q:  How do we know what that purpose is?** _

_A:  We believe that 33 years after the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the angel Vahishtael appeared to Longinus, a kindred centurion who became such after piercing the crucified Christ with his spear, and told him of God's plan for all of our kind._

_**Q:  What is that purpose?** _

_A:  As Kindred, we are charged by God to be the trustees of Mankind.  It is our duty to steer Mankind away from Sin and towards its true place at His side in the Kingdom of Heaven._

_Or not..._   She tossed the tract back onto the table.  "Weird..."

The second note was an upstanding card with the letters "M.S." stamped onto it in a sort of Old World style calligraphy.  It didn't have any extra bits to it, and was far less bombastic than Bishop Vick's offer of religious enlightenment.

_Miss Palmer,_

_I hope that this letter finds you in good spirits._

_At your convenience, please visit me at the Pasadena Gentlemen's Club.  In the meantime, I leave you with this riddle:_

_What can you give, keep, and enact, and is sought by many in this kingdom?_

_Sincerely,_

_The Honorable Alder Maximillian Strauss, Earl of Pasadena, Judex and Advisor_

"'Gentlemen's club'?  Like a strip club?"  Probably not.  Judging from his language and stationery, Strauss seemed like too much of a class act to be caught meeting a woman who was lord knows how many years his junior in some titty bar.  She thought about the answer to the riddle for all of a minute and then gave up, feeling like her mind was just refusing to cooperate.  
  
The last note was an informal scrawl on notebook paper from Mercurio telling her the password to her new computer ('sunrise'), that the cash in the desk drawer below the notes ($100, which she happily pocketed before even finishing the note) was hers, and that he had sent her an email with his address.    _I'll get to him tomorrow.  The sun's coming up._  
  
Jo spent the rest of the short evening flipping through the channels on the television.  Whoever had set the apartment up didn't bother buying a cable package, as all she managed to get was a couple of local stations, which were all showing their early morning news show.  She watched each of them for a few minutes at a time and then flipped to another, circulating between them all a few times.  
  
There were no missing persons stories, let alone one about her.  
  
 _Someone's gonna notice eventually,_ she thought.  At the very least Sam would realize within a day or so that she hadn't come back or called and go to the police.  LaCroix and his group could stop her from talking to her friends, but he couldn't stop them from trying to find her.  Not unless he somehow owned the entire LAPD, and he couldn't have been that rich and powerful.  She wasn't living in a movie.  
  
Before Jo could ponder the situation any further, her body began to grow heavy and her mind foggier than it had been that night.  It wasn't a normal fatigue.  It was quick and all-encompassing, as if something within her being demanded that she go to sleep right then and there and stay asleep until it let her wake up.   _Shit..._   She crawled onto the mattress and laid down, using her bag as a pillow.   _I'll just rest my eyes for a bit._  
  
A few seconds later, Jo was out like a light and indistinguishable from a corpse.


End file.
